The evening walks have stopped cold turkey. Comfort food has been ingested by the mega kilo. These include fatty stuff like french fries, and may the Diet God find it in his heart to forgive me, straight bars of chocolate. And I have never watched so many movies or read as many books straight. Of course, when I look at the waistline, which has long shed the hair pin curves which in the distant past were considered deemed natural danger zones, and required to come with statutory warning, I see a tree trunk. Stolid and solid. No matter, I tell myself. I will start the walks tomorrow. I will cut down the fatty, sinful food tomorrow. I will gradually reduce my calorific intake and become Kareena Kapoor on Rujuta Diwekar’s diet. Read size zero.
Who ever it was who snorted “In your dreams” please leave the premises.
Nonetheless, I have my plan chalked out. This includes buying new workout clothes. My tracks are tattered and faded and the lycra fit has stretched to such obscene levels that I would like to believe I have whittled down to this slimness after being at that when I started using said tracks. I delude myself, a cursory look down at them thighs does indicate monster thighs growing to such gigantic proportions that soon I will need to apply anaesthesic gel for thigh burn if I need to get from the bedroom to the kitchen.
Therefore, I swear on all that is holy, including my single pair of Jimmy Choos, (which are incidentally rapidly disintegrating due to lack of use), that I will start today.
I will climb the stairs today if nothing else. I will walk for an hour round the park or until my legs feel ready to fall off. I will not snack on foods which gleefully bound into my system and scatter fat cells far and wide.
I will be active and not roll around mindlessly on the sofa, channel surfing and watching movies so inane that even the child refuses to watch them.
And I will take out the clothes that no longer fit me, and which have been confined to the bottom of the clothes heap in the cupboard, and keep them up front. Right where I can see them every single time I open said cupboard. They will mock me, jeer at me, and shame me into making myself trim enough to fit back into them. And if all else fails, I will take the weighing scale out of hiding and keep it in the bathroom where I can every single morning shudder at the monster truck I’ve morphed into.
No sir. No more excuses. I would like to see myself in the dressing table mirror without my hips being cropped at the side.